It's A Wonderful Life
by funfetti
Summary: When his dad loses his job, Stan Marsh has to move from his home in Aspen to the hick town of South Park. His new school is run by sociopathic frenemies Kyle and Cartman. Challenging them could be social suicide or the best mistake Stan has ever made.
1. Before

**Full Summary: **When his dad loses his job, Stan Marsh is forced to transfer from his beautiful home in Aspen to the hick mountain town of South Park. On his very first day, he gets on the bad side of Kyle Broflovski and Eric Cartman, two sociopathic frenemies who have the rest of the school in fear. Coming between them could be social suicide... or the best mistake Stan has ever made.

**Author's Note:** The real premise of this story is "What would Kyle have turned out like if Stan had never been in his life?" It was born of a discussion between me and my friend while watching "You're Getting Old", in which we noticed that, in the absence of Stan, Kyle and Cartman appeared to be friends. I theorized that maybe Kyle's militant sense of right and wrong was influenced by Stan's moral compass, since Kyle and Cartman seem to have so much in common aside from that, and she challenged me to write this. So. Yeah.

Anyway, this story is primarily a Style (Stan/Kyle) fanfiction, but it will also contain Cartman/Kyle and Bunny (Kenny/Butters). And sex. And cursing. And underage drinking, but duh.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own South Park or any of these characters. Every last one of them belongs to Trey Parker and Matt Stone. I am also not profiting from this story in any way, shape, or form. Except creatively.

* * *

**Prologue - Before **

Stan let Gary drive because he was still a little hungover from last night. Yeah, Gary drove like an old woman, which meant that the four hours it _should_ take to drive from Aspen to Denver were going to be quadrupled, but for once Stan didn't mind. He had a headache and didn't even want to be in the car to begin with.

"Remind me again why Christophe's mom couldn't go and get him herself?" Stan asked, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out anything that might even vaguely resemble sunlight.

He was curled up on the passenger side, the seat as far back as it could go so he could curl his long legs up to his chest and rest his cheek on his knees. He felt like shit and they had already had to pull over once so he could vomit in the snow along the side of the road. Stan would have preferred to be in bed right now, enjoying what rest he could get before Shelly woke up and started screeching.

"Um," Gary said, not taking his eyes off the road. His hands were even at noon and three on the steering wheel. Mormans, man. Stan couldn't stand him sometimes. "Something about Christophe being a godless heathen and not her son anymore."

"Well," Stan grunted as yet another car passed by them, honking and flipping them off. "She's not _wrong_."

Gary laughed.

Stan closed his eyes and took a moment to examine his life choices. The party had been at Baahir Hakeem's house, though it hadn't been Baahir Hakeem's party. In fact, he had looked both stunned and frightened to open the door, expecting a quiet night of whatever it was losers like him and Gregory Yardale did in their spare time, only to find basically everyone who mattered at Aspen High School standing in his front yard. It had been BYOB, so the richest among them had brought gigantic kegs while the poorest had six packs shoved under their coats. Then again, it was Aspen, so 'poor' usually meant 'cheap' rather than _actually_ poor. Even Stan, who lived in one of the more modest houses in the town, could afford some chianti or scotch or whatever if he begged his parents for cash.

Anyway, the surprise house party had been at Baahir's house and Stan was pretty sure that Gregory Yardale had come onto him last night. Stan hated Gregory Yardale. Gregory was a foufy, blond-haired queermo who considered himself to be so highly educated that he couldn't bear to have a conversation that wasn't about literature or politics or political literature. He was on the fast track to Harvard and liked to brag about his SAT scores at every available opportunity. He was also pretty deep in the closet, unlike Stan, who had been out and about since he was fourteen.

Stan didn't remember much from the party – or want to, really – but he was _definitely_ sure he remembered Gregory Yardale feeling him up under the guise of being his designated driver and helping him to the Audi in the driveway. Which… well, Stan didn't really know how to feel about that, besides gesturing for Gary to pull over again so he could get rid of whatever was left in his stomach.

Between Gary slowing down to let every car behind him go past and Stan needing to stop several more times before his vomit turned into pathetic dry heaving, it was past noon by the time they finally made it into Denver. Stan dozed off in the car while Gary headed into the Fillmore Juvenile Detention Center, leaving the radio on and the heater running. He barely had time to dream before someone punched his widow almost hard enough to shatter it, drawing a surprised shriek from his throat.

"Stan Marsh, you little bitch, open ze door!" The Mole shouted, a lit cigarette hanging between his lips and fury in his eyes. But then again, he always had fury in his eyes. Stan just figured it was a byproduct of being French.

He unlocked all the doors and sat up with a sigh as Gary climbed into the backseat and Christophe got in the front. The Mole's license had been suspended and then outright ripped out of his hands after the second time he had totaled another car just for having an 'I Break for Jesus' bumpersticker, but that didn't stop him from demanding to be behind the wheel of any car he was in. Nevermind that it – along with grand theft auto – was why he had been thrown in juvie to begin with.

"How's Trent doing?" Stan asked, rubbing his eyes and reaching over to shut off the heater. It was freezing outside, but they needed to crack all the windows so they didn't die of secondhand smoke. "And when does he get out again?"

"On ze eighteenth of April," said Christophe indifferently, backing out of the parking space so quickly he nearly collided with the car parked directly across from it. "He is getting out two years early for good behavior."

Gary, who was sitting on the hump with all three seatbelts stretched across his body, explained: "He's finally stopped beating up every kid named Kyle, Eric, or Kenny for practice."

Stan rolled his eyes. Trent Boyett, the fourth member of their gang, had spent five-year stints in Fillmore since he _was_ five. Every single time he got out, he hopped the nearest bus into South Park, seeking out some boys who, he claimed, owed him their lives.

Personally, Stan wished Trent would stop getting himself in so much shit because he was the toughest and baddest kid at Aspen High School and he had single-handedly shut up anyone who might comment on Stan's sexuality by beating the first kid to try into a coma. Which, okay, would have been one of the reasons Trent was in juvie if anyone had had the balls to point fingers at him. The point was, of the three boys he called his sort-of-friends, Trent was the one that Stan considered himself closest to out of necessity.

With Christophe behind the wheel, they made the four-hour drive to Aspen in two and a half. Gary was a sickly pale color and Stan had seen his life flash before his eyes enough times to know it had been incredibly pathetic, but they made it in one piece.

"Thank you for coming to pick me up," Christophe said in a rare show of human decency. Then he took a long drag of his cigarette and said, "Now go and take a shower. You look like my ass hole."

Stan was flipping off the car long after it had raced away.

* * *

The house was quiet when Stan walked back in, which was unusual for the middle of the afternoon. His mother would usually be doing chores or whatever it was housewives did with their Saturdays and his sister would usually be parked in front of the television, wearing pajamas and stuffing food past her headgear. However, the television was off, as were all the lights that Stan could see except the one in the kitchen.

He gravitated toward it like a misguided moth, blinking when he saw that his entire family was present and accounted for. His father was sitting at the table, his face in his hands, Shelly was sitting on the counter wearing her usual scowl, and his mother was standing at his father's side, her hand on his shoulder. The women looked up as Stan walked in.

"Oh, honey, there you are," said Sharon Marsh, wringing her hands together. "Sit down. We have some… bad news."

Stan's temples throbbed a migraine warning. "Can I have some aspirin first?"

Shelly was closest to the cupboards so it was she who threw the pill bottle at his head. Stan's years of reflexive flinching helped him avoid it. He retrieved the bottle from the corner of the couch and then returned in time for his mother to hand him a glass of water to wash them down with.

His father still hadn't moved from his place at the table.

Stan gave the pills a couple of minutes to kick in before he finally took a seat opposite his father and asked, "What's going on?"

"Well." Sharon's eyes flicked to Randy for a moment before returning to Stan and she smiled in a way that Stan was sure was meant to be reassuring. It just made him even more wary. "It's – Let me just come right out and say it. Stan, your father lost his job at the office."

Stan waited, but his mother didn't continue.

"So?" he asked. "He can just work at a different office."

"No, he can't," Sharon said and now her voice had gone from soft to irritated. "Your father lost his job because he went to the office drunk, sexually harassed two of his co-workers, verbally abused nine of them, and punched his boss."

Stan's headache exploded in his skull again. He pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his eyes shut, trying to ward it off. Of course that was what happened. Of _course_. Because his dad was an alcoholic idiot and Stan had the _worst_ family.

"In my defense, I was having a rough day and Florence said that having a couple of drinks during lunch couldn't hurt," he heard his father say.

Stan was momentarily gratified that he at least sounded miserable until he opened his eyes and realized that his dad looked like a fried turd right now. He wasn't sorry. He was just hungover.

Stan clenched his eyes shut again. His father was a geologist with the United States Geological Survey. Stan had been born in Lakewood, Colorado, where Randy and Sharon had settled to be close to the Denver Federal Center. However, after Randy had won the Nobel Peace Prize for his theory on moderation, he had used the money from his various interviews and accolades to buy the family a house in Aspen just in time for Stan to start middle school. Sometimes – especially in the winter – the commute was, quote, "a real wet bitch", but his father considered it worth it to brag that he lived in a town with the most expensive real estate prices in the country.

And now his father wasn't just an alcoholic idiot. He was an _unemployed_ alcoholic idiot.

"What," Stan asked when he found the strength to lift his head again. "Are we going to do for money? Mom, you don't have a job."

Stan and Shelly had never worked a day in their lives either, but Stan didn't dare call anyone's attention to that for fear that his parents might need him to pitch in here.

"Yes, well," Sharon said, her voice still steely. "I'm not really qualified for any jobs that would _really_ bring in any money, so we're going to have to cut a lot of corners. One car instead of three. And—"

She took a deep breath and blew it out, falling silent. Stan looked at his father, who had gone back to holding his head in his hands, and then at Shelly.

"We're _moving_, turd," Shelley snapped. "Well, _you_ are. You're moving in with Grandpa because dad blew most of his fucking money on booze and all that crap we have in the garage and we can't afford to live here anymore."

Stan wished he could chalk the dull ache in his temples up to the headache, but he knew that wasn't true. This was an ache that spread from his temples to his skull to his shoulders, like there was an invisible weight bearing down on the upper half of his body. This was the way Stan always felt whenever he was forced to step back and realize that this was his family and _this_ was his life.

"Can I please be excused?" he asked, but didn't stick around to wait for a response.

* * *

That night, Stan snuck out of his house.

He had snuck out of his house the night before as well, but everything looked different now that he knew this was the last time he would ever sneak out of _this_ house in _this_ town.

Grandpa Marsh lived in South Park, a backward town so small and irrelevant that it wasn't even on the map. Stan had never set foot in South Park in his life, but he was more familiar with Grandpa Marsh than he wanted to be because the old man seemed to have adopted Stan as his favorite grandchild, even though he referred to Stan exclusively as Billy. His uncle Jimbo lived in South Park as well and had never left it. According to Randy, Uncle Jimbo liked "guns and Ned", who Stan assumed was like his husband or whatever.

So, basically, there was nothing about South Park that screamed 'perfect place to finish your senior year'. Stan had already applied early decision to the University of Southern California, New York University, and even to Yale just to get as far away from his family as possible. How would those be affected by him transferring schools halfway through the year?

It was a long walk to Gary's house, but the cold air gave Stan plenty of time to feel sorry for himself. By the time Mrs. Harrison opened the door, Stan had mustered enough energy to smile.

"Stan, it's so nice to see you," she said warmly. She said everything warmly, no matter who she was talking to. She was pretty much the only adult that Stan had ever felt guilty thinking mean things about because she was so kind that it made him feel guilty. "You're just in time for board games. As always, we're one person short of even teams."

She stepped to the side to let him into the house. Her husband was sitting on one side of the coffee table with David, Mark, and Amanda. On the other side was Gary, Jennifer, and an empty pillow. The game of choice this Family Home Evening appeared to be _Sorry!_ Stan found that one very fitting.

"Hi, Stan," the family chorused in unison, laughing at themselves immediately after.

Usually, being around Gary's family made Stan feel a lot better about his own. His family sure had their problems, but at least they weren't creepy Mormons. Tonight, however, seeing them all so happy made Stan's mood take a nosedive. He gave them a wan smile and then marched up the stairs to Gary's room.

He was sitting in the computer chair slowly twisting himself around when Gary entered. Stan might have been the closest to Trent out of necessity, but Gary was actually his best friend. Sure, Gary was a total Melvin sometimes, but he didn't put up with any of Stan's shit and, as long as Stan didn't rip on his religion, they got along great. Gary knew that Stan could be a jerk sometimes, but never around his family. He just sat on the bed and looked at Stan, waiting for him to start.

"We're moving," Stan said immediately. He grabbed a tennis ball off the desk and threw it at the wall, catching it when it bounced back. "My dad fucked up at work and they fired him, so we're selling the house for money and moving in with my grandpa. In South Park."

"South Park?" Gary echoed, eyes wide. "Trent's South Park?"

"Apparently. I mean, unless he's actually just been wandering around the base of the Rockies punching people all these years."

Gary smiled, but it faded just as quickly as Stan's did. "That _sucks_. They're really going to make you transfer schools over winter break?"

"They've got no choice," Stan said, echoing the words his mother had said when she had come to check on him before he'd 'gone to sleep'. "Aspen's expensive to live in to begin with and Aspen High School is – well, whatever, South Park Community School is a hell of a lot cheaper. And living with grandpa instead of buying a new house cuts even more costs. This is the best choice for everyone."

"Except you," said Gary.

"Except me," said Stan. He threw the tennis ball again. "I fucking hate my dad, dude."

"No, you don't. I mean, if it weren't for your father, you wouldn't even be alive—"

"Gary, I swear to fucking God, if you don't stow the respect your parents bullshit right now, I'm going to bounce this off your head next."

Gary immediately fell silent, which made Stan feel the barest twinge of guilt. Luckily, it was drowned out by the overwhelming sense of self-pity. He wanted to throw things. He wanted to throw things and rage and bitch about how Shelley was going to Berkley and only home for the holidays, so this was no skin off her nose, but this was Stan's _entire life_ they were upheaving. Six more months and he would be gone too. Six more months and they could move anywhere they fucking wanted and Stan wouldn't give a shit because he'd be—

"_Fuck_," Stan said vehemently. "Do they even have the money to send me to college anymore?"

He dropped the tennis ball and buried his face in his hands. Vaguely, he heard Gary shuffling around somewhere behind him and then felt a hand on his shoulder, but Stan ignored it. He knew that eventually Gary would call Christophe, but he also knew that Gary wouldn't do it until Stan had wallowed to his heart's content. The Mole was the worst person to have around when you were feeling sorry for yourself. He lacked a little thing like empathy and always ended up making you feel worse than you did before or ranting about fucked up shit like how his mother tried to abort him with a clothes hanger.

Yeah, shit that Stan just didn't need to know when he was busy trying to get over a breakup or something.

"When are you moving?" Gary asked, barely above a whisper.

"Next weekend."

"But you'll call and stuff, right?" The hand left his shoulder and pulled his hat off his head so Gary could ruffle his hair instead. "I mean, you're not going to make a bunch of new friends in South Park and forget all about us, are you?"

Stan lifted his head so he could reach up and snatch his hat back. "Dude, if you'd heard even _one_ of the stories my dad tells about growing up in that place, you'd know how stupid you sound right now. I'll be lucky if I make any sane friends at all."

Gary laughed as Stan adjusted his hat on his head and he couldn't help chuckling a bit in return. His chuckle made Gary laugh harder, which made Stan laugh harder too, until they were both laughing so hard that they were tearing up and neither of them had any idea what the hell had been so funny.

Stan finally got a hold of himself and swiped a gloved hand across his eyes, a smile lingering on his face.

"This is going to suck," he said, more lightly now, turning the chair to face the computer. "Do you have Skype on this? I'm going to need you to monitor me and make sure I don't start going crazy. I swear, there's something in the water down there..."


	2. Meetings

**Author's Note:** In between the last chapter and this one, I saw 'Crack Baby Athletic Association' for the first time and it definitely solidified my theory. Oh, Kyle. Oh, _Cartman_.

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Meeting**

Stan had just loaded his last suitcase into the trunk of the car when he smelled smoke and turned around to see Christophe standing there, cigarette in his mouth and a shovel over his shoulder, eyeing him with disdain. Or sadness. It was always hard to tell with him.

"Stan," he began, dropping his cigarette on the ground and rubbing it out with his boot only to immediately light a new one. "So zis… is goodbye."

"Oh, what_ever_, dude, like I won't be back every weekend my parents let me borrow the car." Stan closed the trunk with a thud, trying not to think about how his whole life was basically packed up inside it.

His parents had sold all of their furniture and the other two cars. Stan had given away some of his old clothes to the Salvation Army, minus the Terrence & Philip pajamas he used to wear when he was younger which he refused to part with even though they were collectors' items now. Shelley had even put all her old textbooks up on ebay and was waiting for a good bid to give the money to the family, which was the nicest thing Stan could ever remember her doing. Everything that Stan and his family owned now was in these suitcases inside this car. He looked up at the house that used to be his and sighed.

"This seriously sucks," he said.

"You know what seriously sucks?" Christophe said from behind him. "Getting attacked by fucking guard dogs on my way here because my mother locked me in the basement so I had to dig—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Stan said, waving him off before he could start. "Give me one of those cigarettes, would you?"

"Go and fuck yourself with your sister's curling iron."

Stan was eyeing Christophe, debating the smartness of wrestling his box of cigarettes out of his pocket while he was holding a shovel, when a car pulled up in front of the house. Gary was out first, hopping out of the passenger seat almost as soon as the car came to a stop, to give Stan a hug. The engine cut out, the car door opened, and Gregory Yardale walked around the front of the car, looking for all the world like he hadn't tried to play grab ass with Stan just last wek. Stan glared at him over Gary's shoulder.

"We brought you a present, Stanley," Gregory said in his stupid annoying British accent like the stupid annoying British dick that he was. "To say goodbye."

"Are you the present?" Stan asked. "Because, if so, I'd like the receipt."

Christophe started laughing then hacking midway through, like he was trying to cough up a hairball or something. Gary let go of Stan to go and clap him on the back, watching Christophe warily just in case he needed to put his mastery of the Heimlich maneuver into action. Stan knew it wouldn't be necessary, though. That shit was probably early lung cancer; he doubted Christophe had actually choked on anything.

"Don't be silly," Gregory said with a roll of his eyes. "On behalf of myself and the fallen comrades who couldn't be here—"

"No one wanted to get up this early in the morning," Gary whispered to Stan, who bit back a smile.

"—I would like to present you, Stanley Marsh, with this." Gregory went back to the car, where he had presumably stashed the gift to keep the surprise of it intact, and then returned with a hockey stick-shaped parcel.

"Huh," Stan said. "I wonder what that could be."

"You were the best player that we had," Gregory continued, nonplussed. "And you moving is a great loss. I sincerely hope you continue to polish your talents in your new home and maybe we'll see you again at finals, eh old boy?"

Christophe exhaled a very large smoke ring and said, "Gregory, give the pretension a rest for five fucking seconds before we buttfuck you with that hockey stick."

"Quite," Gregory said, falling instantly silent. Stan, who had never seen this happen in the entire time he'd known Gregory Yardale, stared at the Mole in surprise. He wished he could have learned that trick a lot sooner, but even if he learned it now it would be useless to him. As far as Stan knew, there were no Gregory Yardales in South Park. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

His front door opened and his parents stepped out onto the lawn, his mother struggling with a final suitcase. His father had an empty beer can in _his_ hand, but Stan turned a blind eye to that because otherwise he would have an apoplexy or maybe leave his dad here while he drove his mother down to South Park without him.

"We're all ready to go, sweetie," said Sharon, turning her smile from Stan to the other boys in the yard. "How nice! Did you boys come to see Stan off?"

"Yes, Mrs. Marsh," said Gary, stepping forward immediately. "Here, let me help you with that."

It seemed all too soon before they were loaded up completely and Stan was sitting in the backseat of the car, staring at his friends and Gregory through the window. Gary looked like he was trying very hard not to say anything that would make Stan's last memory of him reek of pussy, Gregory seemed disinclined to say anything at all, and Christophe continued to chain smoke to the point that the inside of the car began to reek of it.

"Right, well," Randy said, then paused as though searching for the most tactful way to tell the group of boys to get away from his car. "Bye!"

He rolled up Stan's window and then put the car in reverse, flying down the driveway so quickly that he nearly hit Gregory's car. Stan got one last glimpse of his friends, now covered in the snow that had flown from under the wheels, before they were racing down the icy streets.

* * *

"Do you like your room, Billy?"

Stan stopped staring out the window like a princess in a tower long enough to turn to face his grandfather, who was sitting in the doorway and staring at him in an oddly lucid way. Well, as lucid as he could get thinking that Stan's name was Billy.

"It's nice, grandpa," Stan said, and almost meant it. It was a nice room… for Randy. His parents had gotten the guest room to themselves and grandpa had his own room, which meant Stan had gotten Randy's old room, the room he had grown up in. Some might look upon this as a chance to get to know their parents in a new and different way. Stan had just spent every day doing laundry because he wasn't sure how many times his father the porno addict had cranked it in that bed.

He'd lived out the rest of his winter break in relative obscurity, besides a meeting with the principle of South Park High School to make sure all of his papers were in order for his transfer. On his way into her office, Stan had noticed a scorch mark on one of the lockers, but pointing it out to Randy hadn't done any good.

"That means this school has character," Randy had said. "A unique history that you'll now be a party of. It'll be great! Maybe if you're good, your old man will show you a few of his trophies."

A few of his trophies turned out to be one trophy for winning a talent show, but Randy had been so proud of it that Stan had stayed and listened to him tell the story for the fifty thousandth time before he locked himself back up in his room.

School began in the morning, Stan's first day at a new school just in time for the last semester, and to say he was looking forward to it was a blatant lie. Despite his mother's encouragement, Stan hadn't left the house even once to explore the town or to make new friends. Instead, he had Skyped with Gary and occasionally The Mole and whined until Christophe threatened to hike down to South Park just to put a boot in Stan's ass.

"Billy," Grandpa Marsh said, reminding Stan that he was still in the room.

Stan pushed himself away from the window and climbed into bed, stifling a sigh. "Yes, grandpa?"

"Get some rest. And remember – give 'em hell."

"Give who hell, grandpa?"

"_Them_."

"Yes, grandpa."

Stan waited until the quiet whir of Grandpa Marsh's wheelchair had faded down the hall before he flopped back down on the bed, clenching his eyes shut and wishing he were back in Aspen. He realized he was being a little bit cynical. Sure, he'd heard a lot of weird, negative shit about South Park, but that didn't mean he would necessarily go through any of it.

But Stan was eighteen years old, which, he thought, entitled him to a little pessimism. He fell asleep with a scowl on his face.

* * *

Stan felt like he had stepped right into some kind of teenage romantic comedy. He looked at the paper in his hand and then at the lockers, half expecting that he'd made a mistake. But, no, Locker 437 was his – and there was a couple making out against it.

He was at least gratified that it was a couple of boys – at least he _thought_ one of them was a boy – because he could at least cross a potential gay bashing off his list of things that made South Park suck. No one was paying the two boys even the slightest amount of attention except for Stan. Not even the teachers, which was weird because there was ass-grabbing going on and Stan could only see three hands.

He cleared his throat and was ignored. Then he cleared his throat again and still received no response.

"Hey, could you _fucking_ move?" he tried.

One boy ripped his mouth away from the other boy's, his entire face going red when he nearly crashed right into Stan. "Oh, hamburgers. I'm awful sorry. This is your locker, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Stan said, puzzled. He'd been expecting more of an angry response, but the lighter of the two blonds was mashing his knuckles together and staring at the floor, muttering apologies.

The other blond took his good, sweet time peeling himself off of Stan's locker. Stan turned to see that this was because the boy was giving him an appraising look, starting from his sneakers and dragging his eyes slowly upward to meet Stan's. It felt like a caress and he had to actively tell himself not to shiver or run.

"Sorry," he said, but he sounded much less sincere about it than his companion. He pulled his orange hood up over his head and then pulled the strings until only his eyes were visible. Then he stuck out a gloved hand. "Kenny McCormick."

How Stan had understood that what with how muffled it was from the coat was a mystery. He took Kenny's hand and shook it firmly. "Stan Marsh. I'm new."

"I can tell. You interrupted me." Kenny didn't sound upset in the slightest. In fact, he sounded almost gleeful. "We haven't gotten any new blood around here in a while. I hope you're fun."

Stan didn't know how to respond to that, but thankfully he didn't have to. The other boy was grabbing his hand and shaking it, but his grip was feebly and he let go almost immediately.

"I'm Butters," he said with a smile.

"His name's Leopold," Kenny corrected, rummaging through his pockets until he found a mostly empty pack of cigarettes. "Leopold Scotch, but everyone calls him Butters for obvious reasons."

"Butterscotch? That's—" _Gay_, Stan wanted to say. "Cute."

Butters smiled like Stan had bestowed a rare honor on him with the compliment. It was making Stan uncomfortable, so he stepped past Kenny to try his locker combination. He had Biology first period and he wasn't sure watch to expect out of the South Park educational system so he shoved his textbook, a notebook, and four pens into his bag before closing the locker. Kenny and Butters were still lingering when he turned around.

"What?" Stan asked.

"Biology, huh?" Kenny said, clicking his tongue sympathetically. "Good luck, man. You'll need it."

Before Stan could ask what that was supposed to mean, Kenny had grabbed Butters by the wrist and was leading him away.

"Oh, if you don't have other plans by then, come grab lunch with me and Butters!" Kenny called over his shoulder. "Your treat!"

* * *

With that kind of introduction, Stan felt he was _understandably_ wary when he found the Biology classroom. It was full of students already, all chattering excitedly to one another about how they had spent their summer vacations. The lab tables were organized two to a row and people were already paired off, so Stan grabbed a table at the back by himself.

"Oh, no," said the teacher was he walked in. He was a tall man with a salt and pepper beard and a very obvious comb-over, the latter of which was probably the reason he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. "Don't any of you get comfortable. I'm assigning your partners this semester."

A loud groan rose up from the students. Stan groaned with them in solidarity.

"Shut the fuck up," the teacher said. "Mr. Broflovski, Mr. Cartman, I want you two on opposite corners of the room. You nearly blew the school up _four times_."

"That was Kyle's fault, Mr. Barnaby," said the bulky boy sitting directly in front of Stan. He was built like a linebacker or a brick wall, wearing a red coat and a sky blue hat with a yellow poof on top. He also pronounced Kyle like it had a bunch of additional letters: _Kahyle._ "Jews can't do Chemistry."

"This is Biology, Eric," Mr. Barnaby pointed out, but his words were drowned out by the loud cry of_ shut your fucking mouth, you fat bastard _that burst from the scrawny boy sitting on the stool to Eric's right. He whirled around on the stool until Stan could see his profile, his green ushanka slipping up enough to show a mass of bright red curls.

"All those times were your fault and you know it!" the boy – Kyle? – continued. "Who brings a blowtorch to Biology class?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Kyle."

"You set our bacteria samples on fire and I got an F! Because of you, fatass!" Kyle whirled around until he was facing the front of the room again. "Mr. Barnaby, I completely agree with you. I want a different partner."

"_Ay_," said Eric. "I don't want a different partner. Mr. Barnaby, I have to work with Kyle because—"

"Save it, Eric, I already have a seating plan ready."

Mr. Barnaby sounded like he already had a headache and, quite frankly, Stan couldn't blame him. He studied the backs of the two heads in front of them, figuring these two had to be the most popular kids in school or something, considering they could curse and yell at each other and the teacher without getting in trouble. No one else in the room was cringing or even looking up, like this was normal behavior.

Maybe this _was_ South Park's idea of normal behavior.

Stan doodled idly in the back of his notebook until his name was called five seconds before _Kyle Broflovski_. He glanced up at the same time green ushanka boy turned around and squinted at him. His eyes, Stan took the time to notice, were brown.

"Are you new or something?" Kyle asked, studying Stan's face intently. "I don't know you."

"I'm new. I just transferred in," Stan said, moving his stuff up to the now empty side of Kyle's table.

Kyle huffed out a sigh. "_Great_."

Stan lifted an eyebrow at him, but Kyle was studiously ignoring him now, taking notes on everything that Mr. Barnaby said and highlighting the important things. Stan was already insulted, though he wasn't entirely sure why, but he let it go and flipped open his notebook, too.

Mr. Barnaby wasn't that bad of a teacher. Stan found it easy to keep up with the chapter, which was about animal biology, and gathered information to realize he'd arrived just in time for their unit on dissection.

"We'll start out with something easy, like dissecting an owl pellet—"

"Ew, gross," said Eric Cartman, who was now seated at a table in the front next to a dark-haired girl who had pushed her chair as far away from his as it could get while still allowing her to reach the table. "What the fuck do Biology and owl shit have to do with each other? Can't we cut up something cool like a falcon or a set of twins or a Jew?"

"Fuck you, Cartman!" Kyle snapped without looking up from his notebook. His voice was high and screechy enough to carry across the room, but Stan again assumed from the fact that no one else was looking up – and Mr. Barnaby hadn't even bothered to stop writing on the board – that this was somehow considered normal behavior.

Cartman turned around in his seat. "Why don't you come up here and make me, _Jew_?"

Stan realized that Kyle was actually about to get up and grabbed his arm before he could think better of it. Kyle's head swung around and his eyes were narrowed with barely contained outrage.

"What the fuck are you doing?" His eyes fell to the hand Stan had on his elbow, then back up again. "Get _off_ me, new kid."

Stan loosened his hold a bit, but didn't let go. "Dude, are you _really_ going to start a fight in the middle of Biology class on our first day back? That kid's been baiting you this whole time. Why are you letting him? Just let it go."

"Let it go?" Kyle echoed, indignant. "Were you failing History at your old school or did you not get the Holocaust reference that fucktard was making just there?"

"I got it, thanks. He was doing it to bait you into doing whatever it is you're about to do. I don't even need to know him to know that; I know kids like him. Just sit down and ignore him. It'll piss him off worse than anything."

Kyle stared at him, clearly conflicted between his self-righteous anger and actual logic. Stan just stared him down, his hand warm on Kyle's arm and his eyes earnest. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Kyle yanked his elbow out of Stan's grip and sat back down, scribbling notes in his notebook again. Stan hid a smile as he returned to his own notes.

"_Ey_!" he heard Cartman shout from the front of the room. "What the hell did you say to him, new kid? Kyle! _Kyle!_ You scrawny Jew, what did he say to you?"

Neither Kyle nor Stan paid him any attention.

Eventually, Mr. Barnaby began to talk over Cartman about the other creatures they'd be dissecting over the course of the unit and how they could prepare for it. There was a part of Stan that expected Kyle to hang around after the class was dismissed, but he was packing up his stuff before Mr. Barnaby had even said they could go and he and Cartman left together, arguing passionately without a single glance at Stan. He watched them leave, trying to figure out if they were weirdly racist friends or enemies with unresolved sexual tension or boyfriends or _what_. Two people who hated each other didn't spend that much time together, he was pretty sure.

"Hey."

Stan stopped staring at the doorway and turned to see the dark-haired girl that had been assigned as Cartman's new partner. Up close, he could see that she was very pretty. She had gentle blue eyes and was wearing a pink headband in her hair, which was weaved into a French braid. Her pink knapsack was covered with all sorts of pins from FEMINISM ROCKS to GREENPEACE.

"Hey," he said belatedly.

"I'm Wendy. Wendy Testaburger." She held out her hand for him to shake and then smiled at him. "So. Stan, right?" She leaned in conspiratorially. "What _did_ you say to Kyle?"

Stan laughed. "If you can help me find my next class, I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

By the time he got to lunch, Stan considered Wendy to be his first friend.

It turned out that his next class – Trigonometry – was her next class as well. They'd grabbed two desks in the back and, at Wendy's instruction, Stan had claimed to have forgotten his book at home. This strategy allowed them to write notes back and forth to one another in her notebook while they sat close to share her textbook. Wendy was really funny, in a biting and sarcastic kind of way, but she was really good about giving him help with the things he _did_ need help with and recommending a couple of animal shelters around town for him to volunteer at when she found out how much Stan liked them. She was also a fountain of information.

_Kyle and Cartman have been friends since they were in pre-school,_ she wrote in between taking actual notes. _But they're the kind of friends who really hate each other, you know? I think they just like fighting or maybe they're just used to it, but they're both loud, stubborn, and sociopathic, so their fights tend to… get out of hand._

Mrs. Danby, the Trigonometry teacher, had interrupted to ask Wendy a question about the material before Stan could ask her to clarify what she meant by 'out of hand'. Before he knew it, the class was over and Wendy had a lunchtime meeting with the girls to get to, leaving him to once again fend for himself.

The lunch here was just as unrecognizable as the lunch back at his old school. Stan poked at what he assumed was some kind of meat and some white stuff that he hoped was mashed potatoes, then looked around for an empty table to sit at. He had never really been one of those kids who got anxiety from trying to find a table at lunch. After all, he'd grown up with all the same people, so that sort of thing had never been an issue. In fact, he and Trent liked to laugh at those kids because they looked like fucking idiots, standing there like lost puppies without the balls to just approach a ground, slam their tray down, and say _hey, fuckers, I'm sitting here now._

Stan realized now that he was kind of an asshole.

"Dude! Kid! New kid! Over here!" said a muffled voice somehow audible over all the other voices in the cafeteria. Stan searched for the source and found the orange parka he had spoken to that morning. Oh, right. He _had_ made lunch plans.

Ignoring the people he could feel pausing and watching him, he made his way over to Kenny's table and sat down. "Thanks, dude. I felt like an idiot."

"You looked like one," Kenny said. "Are you going to eat all of that?"

"I was contemplating that. On the one hand, I paid for it. On the other hand," Stan dipped his fork into the mashed potatoes and was unsurprised to find that it was hard as a rock. "Is an early death really worth five bucks?"

"Well, if you're not going to eat it…"

Stan pushed his tray across the table and took the time to look around the cafeteria again. Every table seemed to be full of an eclectic group of people, except for one table in the corner furthest from the door. It was quartered off from all the other tables by ropes, on which hung a sign that said VIP. At the table sat Eric Cartman, consuming what appeared to be his weight in KFC chicken. Next to him was Kyle Broflovski, whose nose was buried between a copy of Swann's Way by Marcel Proust. Every once in a while, Kyle would lower the book in order to grab a piece of chicken and whisper something to Cartman.

"Oh, hey," Stan said suddenly. "Where's your friend? Scotch?"

Kenny responded with a guttural moan, pressing his face down on the table. Stan stared at him, blinking owlishly as he wondered what he was supposed to do. Was Kenny sick? Had he actually tried the food? Was this a job for the Center for Disease Control? _Oh god._

And then Butters climbed out from under the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then smiling brightly at Stan. "Well, hiya, Stan. Sorry I didn't say hello to you sooner. I was kinda in the middle of something."

"Aw-_aww_!" Stan cried, slapping his hands over his face. "Oh, my god. Were you – were you just – did he just – while I was — Is there fucking hammerspace down there or something? How were you – doing that and I didn't even notice?"

Butters had the decency to look embarrassed, but that only lasted as long as it took for Kenny to lift his head, pull down his hood, and stick his tongue down Butters' throat. And, considering what the inside of Butters' mouth tasted like right now, Stan felt dirty just looking at them.

"Jesus Christ," Stan grumbled, turning around to give them some privacy.

His eyes found Kyle again almost as if by accident. Kyle had turned half of the table into a desk and was studiously doing homework, ignoring the occasional attempts at conversation that Cartman was making. Stan could tell, because Cartman was getting increasingly annoyed over it, his voice growing progressively louder. He couldn't make out what Cartman was saying exactly – too many people talking for that – but he could at least tell it had a hell of a lot of curse words in it.

Then, suddenly, Cartman turned and met Stan's gaze dead-on before he could look away. His mouth curled into something that was almost a snarl. Then he used two fingers to point at his own eyes before turning them around and jabbing them in Stan's direction.

"Whoa," he heard Butters say from behind him. "I'ah wonder what I did to piss Eric off now."

"You know those guys?" Stan asked, turning back to the table. Butters was mashing his knuckles together again and Kenny, who seemed fully recovered from his inappropriate orgasm, was wolfing down Stan's lunch like it was a gourmet meal.

"Of course," he said with his mouth full. "I've known those guys since pre-school. Butters too. We used to sit there. Well." He swallowed then shrugged. "In elementary school, we sat there."

"What happened?"

"Life happened. People grow up. They change. They grow apart. Cartman and I never got along and he was always taking advantage of Butters. One day, it got to be too much and I just said fuck him. And so did Butters. But Kyle didn't." Kenny glanced past Stan, to the table, then blew out a sigh that was almost wistful. "Kyle and Cartman always had a connection I could never really understand. Or maybe Kyle was just the easiest to manipulate, I don't know. But Cartman talked him into staying pretty easily and now, well, I can't even tell the two of them apart most days."

"I can," said Butters, giving Kenny a brownie that he pulled from his backpack. "Cartman's the fat fuck and Kyle's the Jew."

Stan, who had began to envision Butters as the kind of boy who belonged in a Disney movie and whose voice summoned birds and squirrels to his side to help him clean his room, stared.

Kenny laughed. "Get used to that, Marsh. Butters and I aren't friends because I like corrupting angels."

* * *

"Hey! New kid!"

Stan stopped halfway across the parking lot, trying not to roll his eyes at what was apparently his nickname for a while, and turned around. To his surprise, Kyle Broflovski was running toward him. He came to a stop in front of Stan without appearing even remotely out of breath. Instead, he seemed more concerned with glancing around the parking lot to see who was watching them and why.

Stan wondered when he'd walked into the middle of a spy drama. "I swear I'm not wearing a wire."

"Funny," Kyle said in a tone that said just the opposite. "Look, you did me a favor earlier so I'm paying you back. I hate owing people favors."

"It wasn't a favor. I was just—"

"Stay away from Kenny McCormick."

Stan blinked. "What?"

"Kenny McCormick. Cartman saw you sitting with him at lunch." Kyle glanced around the parking lot again and then he grabbed Stan's wrist and pulled him behind a tree, of all places, his face set with determination. "Kenny McCormick is a slut _and_ a mooch. He'll eat all your food and spend all your money and sleep with all your girlfriends. That's the kind of asshole he is. I would know. We used to be—"

"Friends, yeah. I heard." Stan tried to focus on the weirdness of this conversation and not on the fact that a boy was pressing him against a tree. That hadn't happened to him since sophomore year. Good times, that.

Kyle scowled. "Forget whatever he told you. It's probably crap anyway. Kenny and I used to be friends. Good friends. Best friends, even. But then I realized that all he ever does is use people. He used me for food and money and a place to sleep just because his fucking family's on welfare. He's using Butters for sex even though he can and will go and get it anywhere else _knowing_ Butters is fucking in love with him. He's a _user_, Stan. And everyone in the whole school knows it, so he's latched on to you because you're new and you'll feed him and feel bad for his _boo hoo I'm so poor I eat Poptarts for dinner every night_ act. You're a nice guy, Stan. I realized that in Biology. And what you need to realize is that being a nice guy also makes you a _total_ pussy."

Stan suddenly missed The Mole.

"Look, I can't tell you who to make friends with or not, but you're better off sticking with Wendy," Kyle said, stepping back so there was more room between them. "She's great. Really smart, loves politics and nagging and doing the right thing. I know you're new and looking for friends where you can find them, but don't settle for Kenny. Just rent a bunch of gay porn. That's what hanging out with him and Butters is like anyway."

With Kyle a safer distance away, Stan was able to think a lot more clearly. And he was pretty sure his brain had rejected all of this as bullshit already, even just out of spite at the audacity of anyone thinking they could warn him away from a guy who had been nothing but sort of nice to him.

"Is this you trying to be my friend?" Stan found himself saying. "Or am I just stuck in a really bad adaptation of _Mean Girls_?"

Kyle snorted. "Fuck no. I already have a friend."

With that, Kyle turned and walked away without another backward glance.

"You're allowed to have more than one friend!" Stan called after him, but if Kyle heard him then he sure as hell wasn't acting like it. He watched until the green hat disappeared around the corner of the building and then pulled his bus pass out of his pocket again, sighing. He couldn't wait to hear what Gary had to say about this.


End file.
